


In The Neighborhood

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Frankie is the best grunkle, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), One Shot, Original Character(s), Short One Shot, Swearing, a guy gets a cup thrown at his head that's it, i don't think this counts as violence, i wrote this instead of doing work whoops, like monkeys with a type writer and a few swigs of whiskey, no proof reading, please forgive me for my weird ass phrasing, super original title, we die as nature intended, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: In which Frankie's old and shitty, yet not the shittiest in the room.





	In The Neighborhood

Finishing off the set with a short arpeggio, Frank gives a quick bow with his hand as he finishes off his whiskey and rye. Setting the glass back on the piano and getting up, he halfheartedly waves at the crowd, keeping his head down as he makes his way out of the limelight. He winks once at Magnolia as he passes, otherwise remaining straight faced and purposefully oblivious. She certainly is someone he doesn’t mind sharing the playbooks with, and it’d be wrong not to at least _acknowledge_ the house band anyhow. Though one could argue he’s swiftly securing his place on that roster, what with the way they cheer at him. Not that he deserves it.

“Hey, good show tonight, Frankie!” a drifter exclaims, practically jumping out of his seat- and tripping- to reach out in an attempt to shake his hand.

Managing to hold the reflexive disgusted expression from his face, Frank begrudgingly allows the guy to shake his hand with a little more vigor than he anticipated. Attributing it to the bright red nose stuck on the guy’s face, Frank forces a chuckle and mumbles his thanks, hurrying through the pleasantries and retreating at a faster pace than before.

Taking his seat at the empty table far enough away from the crowd, his grumblings about overly friendly folk are peppered with less than friendly words, persisting even as he waves to a ghoulette carrying drinks. Rather than make her way over to him, she walks up to Charlie at the bar as Frank leans his forehead against his palm. One benefit of being so recognizable is ordering being cut out off the regularly scheduled bar perusing itinerary. Not to undermine the complications and risks that go along with such an arrangement, course. Not quite hearing what she said, Frank nods as he lifts the bottle up to his lips, muttering something about a tab and a lack of funds. He still doesn’t hear what she says, but can certainly make some educated guesses. _‘If it weren’t for your standing with Hancock-’, ‘Have to run out of patience eventually-’, ‘Can’t keep holding out-’,_ blah blah blah. Taking another drink, he sets the bottle back down on the table as she walks off, keeping his hold on it. Rolling his eyes, he exhales a sigh from his lack of a nose, resting his forehead against the table, his free hand finding a place to rest on the back of his head.

He nearly drifts off a few moments later, until a lady’s voice asks, “excuse me, sir?”

Huffing and not bothering to hold back the bite in his voice, Frank gruffly returns, “what?”

“I was wondering if you had anything to spare,” she continues. “Anything at all would help; food, water, caps-”

“Let me stop ya right there,” he grumbles, holding up his hand with his head still resting on the table. “Do you really think some old bum sittin’ in the dark corner has any better luck than you? Fuck off.”

“You have enough to buy drinks everytime you come here,” she retorts.

“Look, bitch, I said-” Lifting his head, the scowl immediately drops from his face when he sees the girl no more- _couldn’t be_ anymore than 16. Softening his tone, but still not at all pleasant, Frank says, “I ain’t got nothin’ but the clothes on my back, kid.”

“Then what’s that?” she counters, pointing at the accordion sitting under the booth.

Beginning to snap at her, movement in the background catches Frank’s eye and he stops mid syllable. Watching the skeevy looking guy a few tables away holding the young boy’s arm for a moment, he takes action as soon as he starts to drag the kid away. Quickly grabbing the empty cup on the table and standing up, he chucks it at the weirdo’s head, the glass shattering on impact and allowing the boy to yank his arm free, running over to a slightly older girl. Both of them make their way towards the teenager, ducking through legs and under tables. Shouting something to call attention to the weirdo, Frank ducks back down out of the red and looks at the teenager again.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks.

“Presley,” the shaken girl answers, kneeling down to hug the two little kids.

“Those your kids?” he continues. Please, for the love of god, say no.

“Siblings, more or less,” Presley says.

Cutting her off from adding in anything else, he jerks his thumb towards the exit and says, “then I suggest you get ‘em the fuck outta here before somethin’ else happens.”

Nodding hurriedly, she picks up the boy, hurriedly leading the girl around the main part of the bar, steering clear of the rapidly heating situation. Watching as the first few punches are thrown and the ever accompanying shouts and cheers ring out, Frank frowns at the brawl, glancing over to see the three kids narrowly miss Ham as he comes storming down the stairs. Absentmindedly looking on at the scuffle, Frank takes another sip of his drink, grimacing at it and setting it off to the side. He sits there for a moment more until he finally swears under his breath, running a hand against his forehead and getting up just as Ham starts dragging a guy off the weirdo.

Walking up to the ghoul, Frank asks, “hey, ever heard of a kid named Presley?”

“Kind of in the middle of something, Frankie,” Ham grunts, struggling to keep ahold of the guy.

“It’s a simple fuckin’ yes or no, man,” Frank argues.

Holding the man down, Ham sighs and says, “I think I heard one of the guys from the Watch mention the name. Usually holes up near Bobbi’s old foxhole.”

Nodding, Frank turns away towards the exit, just noticing the weirdo swinging at him from the side in time. With the assistance of another bargoer, he manages to wrangle him to the ground, all while he swears up and down at Frank. Choosing to ignore some of the insults most unwise in their current company, Frank lets the other guy grab him in a headlock, giving him an approving smirk before carrying on his way.

 

Making sure the cloth is all tied up nice and tight, Frank holds the bundle on his hip and his cigarette between his teeth while lifting the loose floorboard under the ancient bed. Holding it up with his foot, he pulls the accordion in its case over to its well used hiding spot, setting the old suitcase back over it. Blowing out a puff of smoke from the side of his mouth, he readjusts the bundle of cloth on his side as he opens the door to his room, locking it behind him. Pulling up the zipper on his jacket, he takes the cigarette from his mouth with another plume of smoke, begrudgingly nodding to Fred lingering around the bottom of the stairs. The chem dealer smiles and waves as Frank walks towards the door, the old ghoul rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he leaves. He immediately grimaces as the cold air hits him like a full 18 wheeler, grumbling to himself about going through with this. Even as he voices his complaints to himself and the cracked asphalt, he continues down towards the even still notorious alley. Spotting the narrow cut around the corner, he tosses his cigarette on the ground and puts it out under a boot, slowly moving into the alley. Quickly finding the three sleeping bodies huddled against the crates piled up, he allows a small frown to cover his mouth, setting the bundle down on the thankfully dry ground. Undoing the knot with a quick motion, he goes through the pile, periodically glancing at the children over his shoulder. Finding what he was looking for, he carefully creeps over to them and gently places a blanket over each of them, freezing when the little girl stirs in her sleep. Maneuvering back over to the bundle, he grabs the two stuffed toys he’d managed to find. Turning back towards the two younger kids, he nearly leaps out of his skin when something in the pile shifts and clinks, his shoulders tensing up as he holds his breath. He only moves again once he’s positive they’re all still asleep, setting the toys next to the younger two and forcing himself to calm down again. If he starts letting his nerves get to him-

“Who’s there?” the question sends a shiver down his spine as he looks over his shoulder.

Briefly making eye contact with Presley, Frank catches the swear before it leaves his tongue, all but leaping over her to sprint back down the alley. The sound of his boots hitting the ground startle the other two awake, both of them sitting up and staring at Presley in fear. Moving over to them, she gently hushes and holds them close, shortly noticing the pile of… She doesn’t quite believe her eyes when she makes out some of the contents, moving over to it to investigate further. Sifting through it, she finds cartons of water, sugar bombs, jackets, scarfs, a couple bottles of Nuka Cola, what looks like dried meat wrapped up in paper, and- Sliding open the lid of the heavy tin, she can hardly believe her eyes at the amount of caps crammed inside, to the point that it takes more than a little effort to force it shut again. The girl can hardly help the tears welling up in her eyes, tightly hugging the two kids and wrapping the blankets around them.

 

Shifting the strap of his pack on his shoulder, Frank picks up his other belongings, tucking what he can into his pockets. Flicking back his hat, he ambles down towards the exit of Goodneighbor, briefly glancing at the three huddled figures lingering at the benches. Looking at the ground as he passes, he tosses a box of snack cakes onto a bench by the kids, three heads wearing knit caps turning to watch him go, barely catching the small smile on his face.

Taking a moment to recognize the ghoul from the bar that had turned her away, Presley frowns as the little boy grabs the snack cakes and asks, “can we open them?”

“I guess so,” she says absentmindedly, watching as the ghoul glances at them before disappearing beyond the walls.

Her attention is brought back to the kids when the girl grabs her arm and waves something at her, saying, “look! Look! There was something in it!”

Taking the piece of paper from the girl, Presley squints at the handwriting, barely able to make it out.

“What’s it say?” the boy asks excitedly.

Slowly, still not entirely sure herself, Presley reads, “‘be back this March. Leave the porchlight on. Will bring more…’ Not sure what that says… ‘Get Daisy or Mayor if you need something. Say I said so. Frank.’”

“Do you think he meant more soda?” the boy asks.

Smiling slightly, Presley says, “maybe. You’re still not drinking anymore yet.”

Both children simultaneously make their complaints known, and Presley rolls her eyes. She folds up the note and sticks it in her jacket pocket, still smiling ever so slightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Being a musician is hard work, what with the risk of carpel tunnel, the lack of money, the weirdos, the soft spot for kids living on the street like you did for literal centuries. It gets tiring.


End file.
